This back by popular demand. Written in 2005ish, from the teenaged-boy year.
We adopted a boy from Ethiopia in October. We have no idea how old he really is. There are no birth certificates in Ethiopia, so everyone just kind of guesses and then the Ethiopian government sort of makes up a birth date so that you can have some kind of birth certificate to bring back to America to prove that your child exists. Our birth certificate says our son is "12," although all of us, including our son, think he is more like 13 or 14. But it's hard to say.
The first thing we had to do with C. when we came back to America was bring him to the doctor. A large quantity of blood was taken. Many tests were administered. Genitals were ogled in a professional manner. Toenail fungus was observed. Knees were tapped, questions were asked, although C. could not understand most of them and it was up to me to answer as best I could. Our child was found totally healthy, other than the toenail fungus. However, we still had to check for intestinal parasites. This meant a stool sample had to be taken. We were given a container for collection and instructions that the sample could not touch the toilet water, but had to be captured pristine and without contact with potential parasites.
How to solve this problem? We finally came upon the idea of newspaper, like with a puppy. It was quickly decided that, once deposited, the sample would be collected by Ross, as I have a notoriously weak stomach, and frequently gag at even the mention of something vaguely unpleasant. Just now as I am writing this, I am thinking of Eric Van Geisen's "long hair in the muffin" story from high school, and how, even now as I remember it, I feel the reflex coming on. I gag from pungent smells, gross stories, the idea of black licorice, and, on most mornings, brushing my teeth. Ross would be the poop collector. Agreed.
The larger problem still remained of how to explain this procedure to C, who spoke almost no English. How, using only broken English and gestures, do you explain to an adolescent boy that, rather than using the perfectly good toilet, he has to take a shit on a spread out newspaper? And how do we further explain that this only happens one time, and then he is supposed to go back to the toilet again? How arbitrary our rules must seem. His vocabularly did not simplify things. For some unknown reason, he insisted on calling it "poon," which of course means something entirely different to his snickering parents. You find yourself saying something like, "OK, so when poon is coming, no toilet sit. Tell Daddy, he put papers, you poop here on papers," and then acting it out, squatting over newspapers spread on your bathroom floor and pantomiming a pooping face, making your hands into fists, as though that's actually how you do it. As though we all make big straining faces and ball our hands into fists, as opposed to just quietly reading a magazine or doing sudoku.
The first time we explained, C said he understood. Then, he came out of the bathroom and proudly called Ross in, pointing to his poop floatly boldly in the toilet. Unflushed, yes, but, unfortunately flagrantly wallowing in the tainted and forbidden toilet water. Another day passed before we could try again. C is fiercly regular.
The next morning, Ross again explained what had to happen and showed C the newspapers. This time, Chernet had figured it out. When the time came, he called Ross in, and Ross spread out the newspapers and left the bathroom. A few minutes later, our son confidently left the bathroom, leaving the door wide open. Immediately, an unspeakable smell began to fill the apartment. I took one whiff and started to gag and fled as far from the bathroom as I could, still choking on the hideous stench. Ross and I started opening windows. I couldn't believe that anything could smell so bad. I couldn't help but peek down the long hallway to see what was causing all the trouble. I spied something long, snakey, and reddish-brown, lying perfectly centered on the newspaper square. Instantly the gag reflex returned. I hurried to the piano and started to play the most complicated pieces I could find, anything to avoid thinking about the horrible specimen that lay quietly in the bathroom, awaiting my intrepid husband.
Ross picked up the collection jar. I heard heavy footsteps start down the hallway, falter, then start again, hesitantly at first, but then picking up speed as he girded himself for the ordeal to come. The jar opened, and I immediately heard a loud, gagging cough. Then again. My piano playing grew louder. Selfishly, I thought, "Is he going to puke? Oh, God, how will we clean it up?" Ross rallied. I heard the jar close, then the rustling of paper and several plastic bags as he folded up what remained and brought it outside to the trash. Then the running of water as he washed his hand repeatedly in the sink. Just in case.
We hopped in the car to deliver the goods, and all Ross kept mumbling was, "Oh, and it was all snaking around and stuff!" Somehow, the fact that the poop had been deposited in a sort of swirl shape was more than he could handle. Well, that and the stench. But at least the stench was something we had experienced together.The horrid coil was his memory to carry alone.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
When I really needed a place to live
Last week, in all my teary stress, I had to find an apartment. I was desperate and broke. I probably looked at over a dozen apartments, and none of them was quite right. There were a few that could have worked, but they just didn't feel right. Some were too small, too expensive, not dog-friendly, straight-up grim. As I said, I knew that I was looking for the impossible: an apartment that had access to a fenced yard, a good-sized kitchen, storage, sunshine, and enough room for a wild Irish dog to prance around and look out the windows while I was at work. What I was most worried about was finding a place where I could have Wesley and not worried that he was disturbing anyone or causing problems. He is not an easy dog. I wanted a landlord that I felt would be caring and understanding of my situation. Oh, and I needed to be able to afford it.
After reading about this idea in Eat Pray Love, I decided to try writing a petition to God. Here is what I wrote:
Dear God,
I am writing to request that you send me a safe and welcoming place to live that I love and can afford. If I feel safe there, I will be able to have Wesley, thus easing the burden on Ross. I will have more energy to devote to doing my job, and will be more helpful to my students and to my teaching partner. Having a safe home in Boston will allow me to feel safe and comfortable, and open my heart to the world. It will help me to be better able to give goodness and kindness to the world, and to do the work that I know you have planned for me to do. Please accept my respectful request, and know that I appreciate all of the kindness, goodness, and beauty you have sent to me and allowed me to experience throughout my life...(then some private stuff)
Respectfully yours,
Katrina
Then, I imagined all of the people who would sign my petition for a warm, loving, and welcoming place to live where I felt safe. My parents signed it, of course, my brother and his family, my therapist, my close friends, my ex-husband and ex-boyfriend. Aunts, uncles, cousins, former students and their families. The list went on and on. I kept coming up with more and more people who care about me, and who would want to support me and see him happy. People who, if they knew about this situation, would want to help make it better. There were so many people who would sign my petition, so many people who felt that their lives were better in some small way, because of me. I could not contain my gratitude for all the love and kindness that I am blessed with in my life. So many people that I am connected to, who wish happiness and goodness to come to me. I cried tears of gratitude as I made that list in my mind of virtual signatures. Afterwards, I felt infinitely better. I was relaxed, and said to myself, "OK, I have done everything I can do. It's in someone else's hands, now." I also had this feeling that I was making the decision that was best for me, the one I knew I had to make, and since I had done that, the rest would have to just fall into place. I went out to lunch with my friend and just forgot about the rest.
Four hours later, I went to an open house at a 1 BR in Roslindale. The first thing I noticed was the fenced yard, which was mostly dirt, with some toys in it. "Hmm," I thought, "They obviously wouldn't be pissed at Wesley for running around and ripping up the yard." I walked up to the back deck, where I saw a couple of people standing and chatting. A tall man introduced himself as the owner of the house, who lived upstairs with his family. "I'm Scott," he said, "Sorry about the yard. See, I'm a dog trainer." A. Dog. Trainer. I practically clutched at him, "So, would it be OK if I lived here with a dog part time? He's a bit wild, but he's a really good dog, and I would make sure he was well behaved..." He cut me off: "Part time, he could live here all the time. The people here now have a dog. He's your dog." I almost didn't need to see the inside. But I went inside. Big kitchen. Lots of storage. Dining room. Free laundry in the basement. Warm, caring owners who lived upstairs. Pet-friendly. It was exactly what I had asked God for. And, I could afford it.
I called the family an hour after seeing the place to tell them that I was interested. They said I would talk it over and call me back. As I was waiting for the return call, I thought, "Maybe I should send Scott and Alison a copy of the petition." So, in my mind I sent it to them, adding a few more signatures. As I was doing this, the phone rang. It was Alison, telling me that she thought it was a good fit, and that they would just have to check my references. A few days later, when I went to sign the lease, broke, but knowing that somehow the money thing would work out, Alison informed me that they didn't do a security deposit, and that she and Scott had been planning to ask for last month's rent, but decided against it, because it was too much of a pain. "Hold onto your money," she said. "Pay us first month when you move it, and we'll go from there. As long as we can pay our mortgage by the 16th, we're OK." The money was taken care of.
This is what I'm dealing with on a regular basis. How can I ever express my gratitude adequately?
After reading about this idea in Eat Pray Love, I decided to try writing a petition to God. Here is what I wrote:
Dear God,
I am writing to request that you send me a safe and welcoming place to live that I love and can afford. If I feel safe there, I will be able to have Wesley, thus easing the burden on Ross. I will have more energy to devote to doing my job, and will be more helpful to my students and to my teaching partner. Having a safe home in Boston will allow me to feel safe and comfortable, and open my heart to the world. It will help me to be better able to give goodness and kindness to the world, and to do the work that I know you have planned for me to do. Please accept my respectful request, and know that I appreciate all of the kindness, goodness, and beauty you have sent to me and allowed me to experience throughout my life...(then some private stuff)
Respectfully yours,
Katrina
Then, I imagined all of the people who would sign my petition for a warm, loving, and welcoming place to live where I felt safe. My parents signed it, of course, my brother and his family, my therapist, my close friends, my ex-husband and ex-boyfriend. Aunts, uncles, cousins, former students and their families. The list went on and on. I kept coming up with more and more people who care about me, and who would want to support me and see him happy. People who, if they knew about this situation, would want to help make it better. There were so many people who would sign my petition, so many people who felt that their lives were better in some small way, because of me. I could not contain my gratitude for all the love and kindness that I am blessed with in my life. So many people that I am connected to, who wish happiness and goodness to come to me. I cried tears of gratitude as I made that list in my mind of virtual signatures. Afterwards, I felt infinitely better. I was relaxed, and said to myself, "OK, I have done everything I can do. It's in someone else's hands, now." I also had this feeling that I was making the decision that was best for me, the one I knew I had to make, and since I had done that, the rest would have to just fall into place. I went out to lunch with my friend and just forgot about the rest.
Four hours later, I went to an open house at a 1 BR in Roslindale. The first thing I noticed was the fenced yard, which was mostly dirt, with some toys in it. "Hmm," I thought, "They obviously wouldn't be pissed at Wesley for running around and ripping up the yard." I walked up to the back deck, where I saw a couple of people standing and chatting. A tall man introduced himself as the owner of the house, who lived upstairs with his family. "I'm Scott," he said, "Sorry about the yard. See, I'm a dog trainer." A. Dog. Trainer. I practically clutched at him, "So, would it be OK if I lived here with a dog part time? He's a bit wild, but he's a really good dog, and I would make sure he was well behaved..." He cut me off: "Part time, he could live here all the time. The people here now have a dog. He's your dog." I almost didn't need to see the inside. But I went inside. Big kitchen. Lots of storage. Dining room. Free laundry in the basement. Warm, caring owners who lived upstairs. Pet-friendly. It was exactly what I had asked God for. And, I could afford it.
I called the family an hour after seeing the place to tell them that I was interested. They said I would talk it over and call me back. As I was waiting for the return call, I thought, "Maybe I should send Scott and Alison a copy of the petition." So, in my mind I sent it to them, adding a few more signatures. As I was doing this, the phone rang. It was Alison, telling me that she thought it was a good fit, and that they would just have to check my references. A few days later, when I went to sign the lease, broke, but knowing that somehow the money thing would work out, Alison informed me that they didn't do a security deposit, and that she and Scott had been planning to ask for last month's rent, but decided against it, because it was too much of a pain. "Hold onto your money," she said. "Pay us first month when you move it, and we'll go from there. As long as we can pay our mortgage by the 16th, we're OK." The money was taken care of.
This is what I'm dealing with on a regular basis. How can I ever express my gratitude adequately?
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Radio Tower for the Universe
At the moment, I am feeling kind of like a radio antenna for the Universe. It’s hard to explain everything that is happening at the moment. Someone I know describes it as a sort of birth, and also confronting the ghost of grief.
The decision to leave my boyfriend and return to Boston was surprisingly painful. I sobbed for three days straight, could eat nothing, and was continuously gripped with panic. I had no idea where I was going to live, and I was supposed to be moving out of my apartment in less than a week. All I wanted to do was lie in my bed in my safe little house, hug my cat, and cry, but I had to be apartment hunting. I don’t know how many places I visited, my eyes red and almost swollen shut from weeping, looking like I had some kind of highly-contagious pinkeye. While making phone appointments to view apartments, I broke down in tears on several occasions, apologizing to my bewildered potential landlords. I even cried while dealing with Verizon customer service, canceling the change in service I had ordered.
At first, my angst had centered around this conflict: I didn’t know what to do. But then, the difficulty lay in the fact that I did know what to do, but didn’t know how, emotionally or physically, I would be able to do it. I was now in this almost impossible Boston situation: I needed a nice, affordable place to live in a safe neighborhood, with a fenced yard for my large, boisterous dog. And I was looking for September 1. Did I mention that I also wanted to live alone? Impossible. Dispiriting. Exhausting. Cue the panic.
Usually, when I have cried in the past, the emotion was more anger or frustration, but for the first time since my grandmothers died, I was crying from a place of deep, aching sadness and loss. I have written before about the bottomless well of sadness that I think sits in me, but that I rarely tap into. Now I was drawing from it by the bucketful. I was drowning in it. It was a relentless mix of intense grief, fear, and guilt. A friend told me that grief is a ghost that follows you around, tapping you on the shoulder until you finally turn around and say, “OK, what do you want?” This was me, turning around, and grief had decided that I had a lot to answer for. I knew that I wasn’t just grieving for the breakup; I was also grieving for the divorce, for the lost child, for the family I had never been able to create.
All of my life, I have always continued to push myself forward, feeling like this was what I had to do in order to survive. So many times I had told myself, “Don’t think about it. Just do it and don’t think about it. You can’t think about it.” Now it was time for me to think about it, to let all of this loss sink in. I had to own the terrible feelings of guilt and fear and loss and sadness. Otherwise I wasn’t going to be able to move forward.
In one therapy session, I sat there sobbing, and asked my therapist, “Is there going to be one day where I wake up, and just big sigh of relief, and don’t need to cry anymore? Is there a day when I will wake up and feel that the burden has been lifted?” Of course there would be. But I couldn’t imagine it. I had walked away from all of this love in my life, people who deeply loved me. I left them. I hurt them. I broke their hearts. What kind of person did this make me? What would my life be like without this love? Horrible, horrible. A horrible, selfish person living an empty, loveless life. Not really, she reminded me. Even though these two men had loved me, I hadn’t been happy with them. And if they can love me, so can other people. And I there are lots of other people in my life who love me, and I can love myself, too. She reminded me that I am a good person, and that it’s not wrong to want to live a life that makes me feel safe, happy, and fulfilled.
She feels like I am on the verge of something. Something huge is happening to me that she can feel. I feel it, too. I am finally on the path of the life I am meant to lead, and poised to take the first step off of a very large cliff. It's like a leap across the Grand Canyon, and ending this relationship and moving to Boston is only the tiniest little hop compared with what I am ultimately going to do. She describes this process as a kind of birth, and birth is very, very painful. But I am getting lots of little nudges and help along the way, if I only pay attention to it.
So here is the part where I feel like this spiritual radio tower. I am getting constant little signals here and there, supporting me, reminding me, nudging me one way or another. Some of them are small. For example, mentioning to some people that I am interested in finding work in LA. Two different people said they could get me work, as soon as I arrive, in the fields in which I expressed interest. Or I meet someone in some random, silly way, and he ends up offering me any kind of help I need, saying to me, “Listen, I know we are basically strangers. I don’t know you at all. But I can see that you are a kind, strong, intelligent woman who is in trouble right now, and I know that you will become a very good friend to me. So, whatever you need, let me know.” And some are much, much bigger. And it's addictive, in a way, this feeling of connection. It is the happiest, most fulfilling feeling in the world. And it's hard to remember to temper that feeling, or to allow it to fade and dissipate, as it will, naturally.
The decision to leave my boyfriend and return to Boston was surprisingly painful. I sobbed for three days straight, could eat nothing, and was continuously gripped with panic. I had no idea where I was going to live, and I was supposed to be moving out of my apartment in less than a week. All I wanted to do was lie in my bed in my safe little house, hug my cat, and cry, but I had to be apartment hunting. I don’t know how many places I visited, my eyes red and almost swollen shut from weeping, looking like I had some kind of highly-contagious pinkeye. While making phone appointments to view apartments, I broke down in tears on several occasions, apologizing to my bewildered potential landlords. I even cried while dealing with Verizon customer service, canceling the change in service I had ordered.
At first, my angst had centered around this conflict: I didn’t know what to do. But then, the difficulty lay in the fact that I did know what to do, but didn’t know how, emotionally or physically, I would be able to do it. I was now in this almost impossible Boston situation: I needed a nice, affordable place to live in a safe neighborhood, with a fenced yard for my large, boisterous dog. And I was looking for September 1. Did I mention that I also wanted to live alone? Impossible. Dispiriting. Exhausting. Cue the panic.
Usually, when I have cried in the past, the emotion was more anger or frustration, but for the first time since my grandmothers died, I was crying from a place of deep, aching sadness and loss. I have written before about the bottomless well of sadness that I think sits in me, but that I rarely tap into. Now I was drawing from it by the bucketful. I was drowning in it. It was a relentless mix of intense grief, fear, and guilt. A friend told me that grief is a ghost that follows you around, tapping you on the shoulder until you finally turn around and say, “OK, what do you want?” This was me, turning around, and grief had decided that I had a lot to answer for. I knew that I wasn’t just grieving for the breakup; I was also grieving for the divorce, for the lost child, for the family I had never been able to create.
All of my life, I have always continued to push myself forward, feeling like this was what I had to do in order to survive. So many times I had told myself, “Don’t think about it. Just do it and don’t think about it. You can’t think about it.” Now it was time for me to think about it, to let all of this loss sink in. I had to own the terrible feelings of guilt and fear and loss and sadness. Otherwise I wasn’t going to be able to move forward.
In one therapy session, I sat there sobbing, and asked my therapist, “Is there going to be one day where I wake up, and just big sigh of relief, and don’t need to cry anymore? Is there a day when I will wake up and feel that the burden has been lifted?” Of course there would be. But I couldn’t imagine it. I had walked away from all of this love in my life, people who deeply loved me. I left them. I hurt them. I broke their hearts. What kind of person did this make me? What would my life be like without this love? Horrible, horrible. A horrible, selfish person living an empty, loveless life. Not really, she reminded me. Even though these two men had loved me, I hadn’t been happy with them. And if they can love me, so can other people. And I there are lots of other people in my life who love me, and I can love myself, too. She reminded me that I am a good person, and that it’s not wrong to want to live a life that makes me feel safe, happy, and fulfilled.
She feels like I am on the verge of something. Something huge is happening to me that she can feel. I feel it, too. I am finally on the path of the life I am meant to lead, and poised to take the first step off of a very large cliff. It's like a leap across the Grand Canyon, and ending this relationship and moving to Boston is only the tiniest little hop compared with what I am ultimately going to do. She describes this process as a kind of birth, and birth is very, very painful. But I am getting lots of little nudges and help along the way, if I only pay attention to it.
So here is the part where I feel like this spiritual radio tower. I am getting constant little signals here and there, supporting me, reminding me, nudging me one way or another. Some of them are small. For example, mentioning to some people that I am interested in finding work in LA. Two different people said they could get me work, as soon as I arrive, in the fields in which I expressed interest. Or I meet someone in some random, silly way, and he ends up offering me any kind of help I need, saying to me, “Listen, I know we are basically strangers. I don’t know you at all. But I can see that you are a kind, strong, intelligent woman who is in trouble right now, and I know that you will become a very good friend to me. So, whatever you need, let me know.” And some are much, much bigger. And it's addictive, in a way, this feeling of connection. It is the happiest, most fulfilling feeling in the world. And it's hard to remember to temper that feeling, or to allow it to fade and dissipate, as it will, naturally.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Israel 7.6 continued
Our day began with a trip to a site overlooking Jerusalem. There are a lot of these, apparently, because they are beautiful, and tourists love them, and Jerusalem is very large and very hilly, so each new overlook gives you a different vantage point. This one was part of the Hass promenade, and we were able to see all of th eareas that were part of Jordan from 1948 to 1967. During that time, Israel only had access to Western Jerusalem, and a small island of land on Mount Zion. We could see the difference between the Western and Eastern parts of Jerusalem. The western side was all built up and modern, and the eastern side is older, with lower buildings.
Immediately beyond Jerusalem to the east is the West Bank, marked by a fence that was sometimes a wall and sometimes a fence. Tall towers were spaced at intervals along the border. Again, it was just surprising how close the Israelis live to people who hate them and wish them harm.
We next headed to Mount Zion to see what is supposedly King David's tomb. It was the first time that th ewomen and men had to be separated. We covered up and walked in to the women's section, which was this tiny room in this synagogue which has been created around the tomb. There is no place to sit down, and barely enough room for six of us to stand. There in front of us was half of a sarcophagus covered in a blue velvet cloth. The mechitsa separated us from seeing the other half, which was on the men's side. Two women were praying in there and it was hard to figure out how the weren't praying to David himself. Less religous people tend to be skeptical that this is actually David's resting place, but this is what tradition dictates.
Equally worthy of skepticism is that on this EXACT spot, on the second floor of David's tomb, is where the Last Supper supposedly took place. Never mind that th ebulding was constructed by the Byzantines, supposedly 1000 years after Jesus died. BUt it was a pretty room, empty save for a sculpture of an olive tree and a snoozing feral cat.
Next we went to a roof, which had the dome of a mosque, and learned more about the border dispute, or at least the craziness of having a divided city. There is a famous story of a nun who lived in Israel, on the boundary line with Jordan. She accidentally dropped her false teeth out the window, where they landed directly below her, in Jordan. She had to go to an Israeli guard, how had to go to his superviser, etc, until officials from both countries had discussions and arranged a date and a checkpoint for the transfer of the dentures from Jordanian custody to Israeli custody. There is a famous picture of the nun with officials from both countries and the false teeth.
We next headed to the Jewish Quarter in the Old City for lunch and to explore. Keith, Lorena and I ate at the Burger Bar so that Keith could have a meal that he enjoyed. He and I were so impressed with the guy who made the burgers. He had a total burger-making mojo that was beyond impressive. Afterwards, we wandered around and looked at people and things, and poked around some alleys. We took a couple of turns, follwed a few stray kittens, and then were in the Arab market that everyone had visited on Shabbat. You could tell the difference immediately, because the Arab Quarter of the Old City hasn't changed, so the streets are much narrower, darker, and more twisty. They Jewish Quarter had been abandoned and destroyed by the Jordanians, so it was all rebuild after 1967, so it is much lighter, with lots of open space. When we went back to the meeting place, Lorena and Karen weren't there. They had gotten lost and needed Ido to walk them through where they needed to go via cell phones.
Once we were all together, we went up on another rooftop to get the best view of the Western Wall. We heard more about the history of the Temple Mount, and then headed down there to pray.
Immediately beyond Jerusalem to the east is the West Bank, marked by a fence that was sometimes a wall and sometimes a fence. Tall towers were spaced at intervals along the border. Again, it was just surprising how close the Israelis live to people who hate them and wish them harm.
We next headed to Mount Zion to see what is supposedly King David's tomb. It was the first time that th ewomen and men had to be separated. We covered up and walked in to the women's section, which was this tiny room in this synagogue which has been created around the tomb. There is no place to sit down, and barely enough room for six of us to stand. There in front of us was half of a sarcophagus covered in a blue velvet cloth. The mechitsa separated us from seeing the other half, which was on the men's side. Two women were praying in there and it was hard to figure out how the weren't praying to David himself. Less religous people tend to be skeptical that this is actually David's resting place, but this is what tradition dictates.
Equally worthy of skepticism is that on this EXACT spot, on the second floor of David's tomb, is where the Last Supper supposedly took place. Never mind that th ebulding was constructed by the Byzantines, supposedly 1000 years after Jesus died. BUt it was a pretty room, empty save for a sculpture of an olive tree and a snoozing feral cat.
Next we went to a roof, which had the dome of a mosque, and learned more about the border dispute, or at least the craziness of having a divided city. There is a famous story of a nun who lived in Israel, on the boundary line with Jordan. She accidentally dropped her false teeth out the window, where they landed directly below her, in Jordan. She had to go to an Israeli guard, how had to go to his superviser, etc, until officials from both countries had discussions and arranged a date and a checkpoint for the transfer of the dentures from Jordanian custody to Israeli custody. There is a famous picture of the nun with officials from both countries and the false teeth.
We next headed to the Jewish Quarter in the Old City for lunch and to explore. Keith, Lorena and I ate at the Burger Bar so that Keith could have a meal that he enjoyed. He and I were so impressed with the guy who made the burgers. He had a total burger-making mojo that was beyond impressive. Afterwards, we wandered around and looked at people and things, and poked around some alleys. We took a couple of turns, follwed a few stray kittens, and then were in the Arab market that everyone had visited on Shabbat. You could tell the difference immediately, because the Arab Quarter of the Old City hasn't changed, so the streets are much narrower, darker, and more twisty. They Jewish Quarter had been abandoned and destroyed by the Jordanians, so it was all rebuild after 1967, so it is much lighter, with lots of open space. When we went back to the meeting place, Lorena and Karen weren't there. They had gotten lost and needed Ido to walk them through where they needed to go via cell phones.
Once we were all together, we went up on another rooftop to get the best view of the Western Wall. We heard more about the history of the Temple Mount, and then headed down there to pray.
Andrew's Comment
Andrew D said...
a few of your comments remind me of the some of the strange things i encountered in asia. while not my native religion they had many temples that seemed to have these hundreds of years old religious manufactured "attractions". "budda slept here". "buddas ankle bone in a glass box". and so on.
all of the places felt spiritual and amazing in their right without these things. I mean if you have a Phalic Shrine do you really need to improve upon it to get people to come worship?
yet these religious addons have become parts of the local flavor of the religion. i guess it was somewhat unsettling for me to see that through the centuries that people felt they needed to add to the existing religion in a physical sense that doesnt seem to be at odds with faith.
I cant imagine being in the physical center of my own religion and seeing how some of these things may stand out.
anyway maybe im well off base with what you intended to say but it has been interesting reading so far.
a few of your comments remind me of the some of the strange things i encountered in asia. while not my native religion they had many temples that seemed to have these hundreds of years old religious manufactured "attractions". "budda slept here". "buddas ankle bone in a glass box". and so on.
all of the places felt spiritual and amazing in their right without these things. I mean if you have a Phalic Shrine do you really need to improve upon it to get people to come worship?
yet these religious addons have become parts of the local flavor of the religion. i guess it was somewhat unsettling for me to see that through the centuries that people felt they needed to add to the existing religion in a physical sense that doesnt seem to be at odds with faith.
I cant imagine being in the physical center of my own religion and seeing how some of these things may stand out.
anyway maybe im well off base with what you intended to say but it has been interesting reading so far.
Western Wall 7.6.08
Right now I am sitting at the Western Wall, or the Wailing Wall. In some ways ,it is kind of a letdown, because the women's section is very small and crowded, and you have to wait your turn to pray against the wall. There are also women begging for tzedakah while you are walking there. This is after you have gone through the X-ray machine and metal detector. So, there's all of that that seem to conspire to make this a vast disappointment, and you can't ever imagine focusing yourself enough to transcend the cell phones ringing, strollers blocking places where you can pray, women shaking cups of coins and shouting for money. Or even the men walking boldly into the section, shouting at one another or on their own cell phones.
It also feels strange to pray to or against a place. Are we putting some divine properties into a place? I had sort of felt that way with David's Tomb, like people there were praying to David, rather than God. Were people praying to the wall? The other interesting thing is that the wall was not part of the Temple, but instead part of a supporting wall that surrounded the Temple Mountain.
So, this is what I have to work with. I clutch my prayers, carefully written out on little slips of paper, and I just think, if I can just get these notes into the cracks of the wall, then it doesnt' really matter if I myself can pray or not. I have brought the prayers of my friends and loved ones here, and I have been a messenger for them. I stuff my notes into the cracks, and then put my hand on the wall and start to pray.
I start with the Shema, and then someone moves out of the way and I have a spot to myself. I press both palms and my forhead against the stone, adn I am almost instantly able to block out everything else. The stones feel warm and smooth against my hands, and I imagine all of those before me who have touched these same stones, for almost two-thousand years. I forget the heat of the day, and I am just in my own space, my own moment, talking to God. Holiness isn't something we happen upon. It can't be created for us. It is something we must create ourselves, by being present in that moment, or in that place. To me, the Wall isn't holy because of the Temple; it is holy because of the years of faith and hope that generations of Jews have put into it.
It also feels strange to pray to or against a place. Are we putting some divine properties into a place? I had sort of felt that way with David's Tomb, like people there were praying to David, rather than God. Were people praying to the wall? The other interesting thing is that the wall was not part of the Temple, but instead part of a supporting wall that surrounded the Temple Mountain.
So, this is what I have to work with. I clutch my prayers, carefully written out on little slips of paper, and I just think, if I can just get these notes into the cracks of the wall, then it doesnt' really matter if I myself can pray or not. I have brought the prayers of my friends and loved ones here, and I have been a messenger for them. I stuff my notes into the cracks, and then put my hand on the wall and start to pray.
I start with the Shema, and then someone moves out of the way and I have a spot to myself. I press both palms and my forhead against the stone, adn I am almost instantly able to block out everything else. The stones feel warm and smooth against my hands, and I imagine all of those before me who have touched these same stones, for almost two-thousand years. I forget the heat of the day, and I am just in my own space, my own moment, talking to God. Holiness isn't something we happen upon. It can't be created for us. It is something we must create ourselves, by being present in that moment, or in that place. To me, the Wall isn't holy because of the Temple; it is holy because of the years of faith and hope that generations of Jews have put into it.
Forgotten Moment
When Keith and I were at the Jewish Market, we came upon a scene that could have taken place on the Lower East Side 100 years ago. A young boy, about 8, stood with his closed fist above a basket of roasted nuts. The proprietor of the stall stood, with his hand gripped firmly around the boy's wrist. They were engaged in a stand-off. The proprietor wasn't going to let go until the boy opened his fist and dropped the stolen nuts. They boy was counting on the business of the stall to distract the proprietor, who would eventually decide the effort wasn't worth it and let him go. The shopkeeper appeared to be winning, because as we walked away, we heard the boy begin to cry, "Abba! Abba!" calling to his father for help.
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